Alexander McCall Smith: A portrait of Mary Peebles

The National Portrait Gallery has a number of paintings that were once thought to be recognisable aristocrats, but their subjects are in fact unknown. This is the imagined story of the woman formerly thought to be Mary, Queen of Scots

Provenance

First recorded in the early 19th century in the collection of a portrait painter called Stewart, from whom it passed to a dealer named Gwennapp. Purchased from Gwennapp some time before 1845 by Patrick Fraser Tytler, a Scottish historian who identified the portrait as Mary, Queen of Scots (it was formerly known as Mary of Lorraine, Queen of James V of Scotland). Sold to the Gallery by Tytler's son. Purchased 1860 (NPG 96).

When acquired by the National Portrait Gallery, it was thought that this portrait depicted Mary, Queen of Scots. However, technical analysis in the 1960s found that many of the symbols in the painting, including a coat of arms, on which the identification was based (now removed) were later additions. The sitter, who does not resemble authentic portraits of Mary, remains a mystery, but the costume indicates that this is a portrait of an English noblewoman. The timepieces may signal the sitter's awareness of human mortality and hope for Christian salvation, or another more complex interpretive programme now lost to us.

The story

Mary Peebles, or "False Mary" as she came to be known, is one of the most unusual figures of Scottish 16th-century history. She was the daughter of an Edinburgh merchant, a man who had prospered sufficiently to be noticed on the fringes of the Holyrood court of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. This court, of course, was a hotbed of intrigue, a dangerous place for anybody, including a young queen, to be. The Scottish nobles, a bickering and ruthless group, thought nothing of murder as a means of securing their goals, and were not above bringing their murderous schemes into the heart of the Queen's household.

After the slaughter of her Italian secretary, David Rizzio, Mary Stuart realised that she could trust virtually nobody, including her husband, the vain and scheming Henry Darnley. It is not known how she came to the decision, but shortly after Rizzio's murder she formed the view that she needed to employ a body double. This device was later to be used by a variety of shady 20th-century dictators, but it was not unknown to prominent figures in the past. The double could serve more than one purpose: he or she would enable the real person to be in more places more frequently, to obvious political advantage. The double could also draw the fire of those plotting to kill the real king or queen – an occupational hazard for doubles, of course, but grounds for great reward, even if posthumously enjoyed.

Mary Peebles did not resemble Mary Stuart in her colouring or even in her facial appearance, but, very importantly, she was exactly the same height as the Queen, and had a very similar gait and bearing. These factors were enough to make her an obvious choice, and she, naturally enough, accepted the role. It did not at first occur to her that she would be a target for assassins; for her, it was a great adventure, enabling her to inhabit regal quarters and enjoy the French style that Mary had brought to the dismal Scottish court.

The Queen liked her and taught her French and deportment. She encouraged her to sit for the numerous Italian portrait painters who attended her court; Mary Stuart herself did not enjoy sitting for portraits, as she found the formal clothing stifling and could not endure hours of immobility in it. In particular, she did not like the constraint to which her waist was subjected. Mary Peebles, by contrast, did not mind this, as she was naturally slim-waisted. "Corsets hold no terrors for me," she said. "Nor does the weight of jewels burden me unduly. I am content in this employment that the Queen has so graciously given me. It is a great thing that I, a merchant's daughter, should spend many hours pretending to be the Queen herself, waving from my horse to the small children of the town, dispensing alms as they were from my own purse, occasionally even doing justice in confining some rogue or vagabond to his just punishment. And the Queen is most kind to me, and gives me the delicate jams that she has sent to her from France. I dine well most nights."

She soon came to understand, though, the essentially temporary nature of a body double's work. She now realised that it was only a matter of time before she encountered an assassin's knife, and so she took to sitting for portraits bearing an iconographical timepiece, occasionally even two, lest the point be missed. She also detested Darnley, who on several occasions forced his attentions on her and then claimed that he had thought she was his wife. She hated him, and when he was blown up at Kirk o'Field, she devised a courtly dance, performed to the words: "Darnley is gone skywards, sing hurrah." The words reveal the depth of her feeling, so much so that some suspected that she was involved in the plot against him, or even instigated it. Nobody knows what happened to her.

The National Portrait Gallery has a number of paintings that were once thought to be recognisable aristocrats, but their subjects are in fact unknown. This is the imagined story of the man formerly thought to be James Scott, Duke of Monmouth and Buccleuch